


The Trouble With Cameras

by LateStarter58



Series: The Booze and Nosh Club: the Tom and Sarah Stories [1]
Category: British Actor RPF, Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Food, Food Porn, Writers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-20 05:29:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17016609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LateStarter58/pseuds/LateStarter58
Summary: Sarah loves to cook, and loves to entertain her friends. Occasionally, one of them brings along a friend of his own...





	The Trouble With Cameras

**Author's Note:**

> This little bit of nonsense was inspired by the Global Goals photo and all the subsequent talk about his books. I have since gone on to write more about these two.

It was the photograph that did it. If Raj hadn’t sent me the photos from that evening, or if he had left that particular one out, I would never have known. Ignorance is bliss, right? I could have gone on with my dull, ordinary little life without that image burned into my brain. Without knowing that he had been looking at me like that.

It had all started out so very normally.

“OK if I bring a mate tonight, Sarah?”

“Of course, love.”

Raj was always showing up with extra people, from the crew he was working with or whatever. At least this time he had bothered to warn me, which wasn’t always the case. Not that it was crucial: when I throw these Friday night dinners I like to do easy food. The sort of thing you prepare in advance, shove in a pot and leave. Starters and nibbles that are simple assembly-jobs (in this case, mixed antipasti – some stuff I made, some I bought from Waitrose) and for the main, a stew, casserole or similar. This particular night I was doing poached chicken. Or _chickens_ , as a crowd was coming. It’s a joy because you just cook it until it falls apart and once it’s on you’d have to be roaring drunk to fuck it up.

_I may have done that once. But only the once._

Anyway, it was a good thing Raj had told me because it meant I bought slightly larger birds as a result. We were ten in the end, which is a nice number. Enough to feel like a party, but not so many that it lost that nice, relaxed intimacy I strive for. I made some sourdough (working from home a lot has some advantages), mixed up a mega bowl of salad and baked a massive pot of _pommes dauphinoise_ to go with.

Once everything that needed to be cooking was bubbling away, I tackled the table. I never use what used to be the dining room for eating. The house is a big one: I inherited it from my Grandma. There is no way I could afford to live in Highgate at all, let alone in a place like this otherwise. As it is, I moved in three years ago, with two sitting tenants in the basement and ground floor flats, which was fine. Heating the whole of this great Edwardian pile would be too much on my meagre BBC salary. No, the top three floors (if you count the attic bedrooms, which are full of junk) are plenty for me – more than enough, really.

Sorry, I’ve digressed again. You’d better get used to it. I am as concise as fuck when working – script editors have to be – but I make up for it BIG TIME otherwise.  Cassie says I could talk for England. Especially when I’ve had a few glasses of wine… Anyway, my massive scratched and grooved old oak table is in the big old kitchen at the back of the house. It’s cosy, friendly and there is plenty of space in there for a crowd to get around it. I’m a bit short of chairs, so I have to use a bench that belonged to my grandparents when I have more than six people, but it’s comfy enough. I don’t go in for flash table dressing. Just a big jug of flowers, tea lights, pots with the cutlery in so people can take what they want and a stack of paper napkins. I don’t do formal dining. If you come to my house you will probably have to ask for the wine, you dig into the grub or starve, and there is absolutely no standing on ceremony.

The last thing to prepare was me, and I didn’t bother too much. I ran through the guest list: Raj and his ‘mate’, four other colleagues from BBC Drama, my old Uni friend Cassie and her partner Jim, and Dirk, my basement tenant. He’s Dutch, artistic, and great fun to be around; he usually comes to these FNDs (Friday Night Dinners).

Sorry. Raj calls me Acronym Woman. It’s laziness really, I suppose. When you deal with words all day, sometimes, by dinnertime on Friday, you just can’t be arsed (CBA) anymore.

So I just put on my silver tunic jumper that is warm and comfortable and shows off my tits nicely, over some black velvet palazzo pants which hide the roundness of my belly a bit. I do try, you know. I walk at least three miles every day, in an attempt to counteract all of the sitting in the chair stuff, but I can’t seem to stick to a gym routine. I just get so bloody bored… As a result, I have what my (short-lived) personal trainer called ‘core flabbiness’. Oh dear. Well, I am happy.

I always say seven o’clock for eight, because I like to serve cocktails and nibbles and most of my friends love to talk as much as I do. In the summer, it can be after nine before I actually serve the meal, because I get embroiled in a conversation or start showing people around the house and garden (which is shared with my tenants and rather nice, thought I say it myself). In the colder months, or most of the year as we call it in England, the delay might be from exploring the library or chatting about current projects, but whatever the cause, I am usually a bit late dishing up.

But that’s fine. In fact, that’s the point, really. My job is pretty pressured. I am constantly working to deadlines, and all of my colleagues are in much the same boat. Our work is like that. Take Raj for example: he is a Production Manager. I can’t think of a more intense job in TV. In short, he is responsible for making sure that the filming in a series runs smoothly, to time and most of all, to budget. He has to resolve crises, fight fires, rush around sorting out problems, sometimes hourly, as well as smooth the ruffled feathers of directors and actors and all the talented people involved in making a TV show. And he gets little or no thanks, most of the time. Just a massive bollocking if things go wrong.

So when I throw these FNDs, they are a chance for me and for all of my gang just to kick back and relax.

The doorbell first rang on the dot of seven. As I suspected, it was Cassie and Jim. As I was letting her in I spotted Bill, Jeremy and Daisy coming down the road. They were hurrying, because it was raining.  I’m about halfway between Highgate Tube and the Cemetery, so they hadn’t had to run very far, but it was that extra-wet kind of rain you get in England in May. And bloody cold with it. Soon my hall was full of wet coats and dripping people, but I was happy. I love a crowd of friends, and entertaining gives me life.

We were all up in the sitting room tucking into olives and martinis when the bell went again, signalling the arrival of the final three guests. As I descended the stairs I could see their shapes through the frosted glass of the big red front door: there was small, round Marianne, my fellow script editor, and that slight figure had to be Raj. Beside him was a tall lean shape, obviously male. _Nice_ , I thought. I like tall men. I opened the door and almost died.

No. Actually, I think I did die, and everything that followed was the dying hallucination of an oxygen-starved brain shutting down. That makes more sense than it being real.

Because standing there, towering over Marianne and Raj was the star – the mother-fucking STAR – of Raj’s just-completed production, _The Night Manager._ Tom Hiddleston. Gorgeous, brainy, sexy, talented _TOM-FUCKING–HIDDLESTON_. Here. On my doorstep.

Marianne snapped me out of my trance, stepping in and kissing my cheek. “Yes love, it’s him. Isn’t he delicious?”

Somehow I recovered my wits. It felt like an out of body experience; my hand lifted up of its own accord and was enveloped in his giant, miraculously warm one. I felt myself shivering at his touch. I couldn’t seem to move my eyes from his lips, and that dazzling, 1000-watt smile. I heard a voice saying “Tom! Great to meet you, come in,” and recognised it as mine. He kissed me on both cheeks, and he smelled fabulous.

“Thanks so much for inviting me, Sarah. Raj tells me your dinners are legendary.”

That seemed to break the spell, that and Raj’s hug, which I returned rather more vigorously than normal. In fact I squeezed him so tightly he protested. “You could have warned me,” I whispered while still in the clinch.

“What? So you could work yourself into a lather about it? Not a chance, babe.” He knew I was a fan, _not a fangirl though_ ; he could hardly mistake it. I had pumped him mercilessly for info from the moment Tom was cast as Jonathan Pine and to be fair, he had been great at handing over juicy titbits when he could.

I set the late arrivals up with drinks – Tom opted for a scotch rather than a martini - and everyone milled around the front of the first floor chatting and laughing. There had been one of those momentary shocked silences when Tom walked in – apparently Raj hadn’t warned anyone, and the women all went rather pink as he was introduced to the assembly. I was still rather dazed, but I soon reset. It’s not as if I hadn’t met an actor before, even some quite big stars. The only difference is that it was _HIM_ , the one I spent quite a lot of time fantasising about, and he was in _my_ house…

_Calm down, dear. He’s just a man_

_A god, a vision, perfection_

_Sex on a stick_

Soon the place was full of happy noises, just how I love it. On one side of the landing is my large sitting room, which has soft sofas, my DVD/Blu-ray collection and the TV. On the other side is what _was_ Grandma’s dining room but which I’ve made into my office/library. Up a half-flight of stairs to the back of the house you’ll find the kitchen and the room I use as my laundry.

We were scattered around in small huddles and everyone seemed comfortable talking. I had been telling Bill what I had been working on that week when I glanced up. From where I was standing in the sitting room I had a perfect view across to my bookshelves, which filled the back wall of the office. There was Tom, perusing my library, his glass in his hand.

He looked amazing. _Not that I’m a fangirl or anything_ , but I recognised his clothing from photographs I may or may not have spent hours gazing at. Those worn, comfy-looking _Lariat_ cowboy boots; tight charcoal jeans (dear god his arse looked fabulous in those), and a white t-shirt. And on top, no doubt because of the chilly weather, _THE_ black cardigan - which still allowed for a wonderful view of the back of his royal looking neck, that hair line that has the gravitational power of a black hole. And the specs. As if all the above weren’t bad enough, he was wearing his glasses. I suppose I must have been staring hard, because he seemed to sense it and turned to look back at me. He smiled and I melted a bit more.

Dinner went well. I think; I was rather preoccupied. I spread the starters out and everyone shared: mortadella and salamis, chunks of fresh pecorino cheese with black peppercorns; garlicky mushrooms, peppers and onions cooked until they are silky soft with loads of olive oil, bruschetta with squished fresh tomatoes and basil, and sharp salty anchovies. Plenty of my bread and olive oil and balsamic. We washed it all down with Pinot Grigio and Chianti.

I think I ate some. My overriding memory is of just looking at the gorgeous man who was sitting very close by me. I had the chair on the end and he had slipped into the nearest seat along the side. When he moved I could smell his cologne and the scent of it made my stomach flip. Also, I might have paid attention to the way he used the cutlery, to the shapes his hands made, and to how he used the serviette. And oh, he talked. He talked to me about my job, his work, the house but most of all my books. As a _not-fangirl_ , I was well aware he was a fellow bibliophile, and the subject of my library is one I am always happy to expound on. So we talked. Too much, probably. I know Cassie had to start collecting the starter plates noisily in a subtle nudge that the main course needed dishing up, anyway.

I dragged myself away and quickly lifted the chickens out of their poaching liquor. It was the work of moments to pull the meat off the bones and tear it into bite-sized pieces while the stock reduced down to make a tasty wine and herb sauce. Cassie got the creamy, garlic-infused potatoes out of the oven for me while I found a nice big serving dish for the chicken and we carried it all triumphantly to the table to the sound of applause. Raj insisted on taking lots of pictures, as usual, and we all did the normal gurning and silly poses.

An hour later and there were empty dishes, plates and bottles littering the table. The talking was as loud as ever, louder even. Only a few people wanted any dessert, Tom among them, of course. In the spirit of my philosophy of easy food, I had made cold things in advance: a passion fruit pavlova and a rich, dark chocolate mousse. No prizes for guessing which Smiley McChocolatelips chose. My suggestion of cheese after that was met with unanimous groans. I think everyone had enough to eat, anyway, so I felt I had done my job as hostess adequately.

The party began to break up, after liqueurs and _digestifs,_ at around midnight. Raj and Tom were the last to leave, hanging back while everyone else said their goodbyes. I was trying to be a grown up and play it cool, which wasn’t easy because Raj kept teasing.

Finally Tom stood in front of me in the hall. “I hope you’ve had a good time, Tom.”

There it was again, that grin: bright sunshine at midnight. “It’s been wonderful, Sarah darling. Thank you so much for allowing me to gate-crash.”

_So he knew I hadn’t known he was coming. Bloody Raj._

“Oh, you’re more than welcome. Any time. Whenever you like. Please, come again.” _Jeez, woman, did you just tell him to come again? Stop dribbling…_

Before I could finish berating myself for being so uncool and pathetic, I was gathered up into one of those _Hiddleshugs_. Oh my, how warm and sexy and comforting and fragrant and _oh-please-let-me-live-here_ it was! I nestled into the soft wool of that beautiful cardi and inhaled deeply. He held on for what felt like a long time, but I assumed it only seemed that way because my heart had stopped. And did he kiss my hair lightly, or was I hallucinating again?

I watched him and Raj walk down the path to the pavement and along the road until they disappeared from sight, then I closed the door and leaned on it while I waited for the feeling to return to my legs.

*****

My life could have just continued after that night as it had before. I could have gone back to my routine of walking on the Heath or round the Cemetery, going into the office at New Broadcasting House a couple of days a week, baking a bit and working a lot at home, and spending time with my friends when we could manage to get together. But the next morning Raj sent me the photos he had taken. They looked pretty much like the ones he took every time: a bunch of slightly tipsy people with wine bottles, flowers and steaming grub in the foreground. But there was one he had taken from the opposite end of the table, with Jeremy, Daisy and Marianne flanking Tom and me in the centre of the composition. I was grinning at the camera, raising my glass in mock toast, but Tom was not looking at Raj. He was looking at me.

Not just looking. _Eyefucking me_. Just looking at the picture made me wet.

_Dear god, how did I miss that? How??? Why didn’t anyone tell me he was eyefucking me? This fangirl, I mean not-fangirl, was the recipient of an EYEFUCK???!!!!  Was he doing THAT all night?_

Less than two minutes after I had seen the picture, the doorbell went. It was a delivery. Flowers. Beautiful mixed spring flowers, tasteful and fresh and the card made me swoon:

**_Thank you for the best evening I have had in ages. See you again soon, I hope. Tom H xx_ **

_Ok Sarah. Steady. He’s pathologically polite, right? He’s just being polite. Sending flowers to the host is an example of good manners. So is the eyefuck._

_But the picture_

_Stop it. You’re not a teenager, you’re a grown woman_

I composed myself (after running up and down the stairs five times squeeing) and got on with my Saturday, which in this case meant ironing and a bit of work postponed from Friday, and only did the occasional dance. Only every ten minutes or so. And I sang, loudly. I felt happy. Even if it was all in my imagination, and he was just being the well brought up young man his parents are rightly proud of, his friendly kindness had boosted my ego so much I was floating on air. Sunday saw me drifting like an untethered balloon across the Heath. It was dull and cool but to me it was high summer.

Monday brought me back to earth, with big delays on the tube and more cold rain making getting into NBH a bit of an ordeal. I was on schedule with my work though, so my meetings went well and I was presented with a pile of new stuff to do.  I had lunch with Marianne and she wanted to know what had happened after she left.

“Nothing. What do you mean, anyway?”

“Oh, don’t be coy! With Tom!”

“He said thanks and left with Raj. What else?”

She fixed me with her gimlet eye. “I saw how he was looking at you, Sarah. And I _know_ he set your knickers on fire.”

“And NOW you tell me? I could have used this information on Friday night, Marianne! What I let you get away with, just because you are my friend, and because, well, he might have sent me some flowers on Saturday, as a thank you. But that’s it.” She kept looking at me, her expression unreadable. I scoffed. “Well, it’s not very likely is it? International Man of Swoonery and little old nobody me…”

She shrugged and I wondered if everyone else had seen what I – apparently – had missed. I still didn’t think it was more than a fantasy and got on with my day, heading home at the end of a fruitful afternoon, feeling satisfied. As I walked back up the hill homeward my phone buzzed. It was an unknown number and I hesitated, but then opened the text.

**_< I hope it’s OK that Raj gave me your number. I’d like to see you again. Very much. Tom Hx>_ **

Ever had that feeling when your entire body goes numb? I stopped dead in my tracks. Nothing seemed to be working. I heard a voice bedside me: it was Dirk, my tenant.

“Are you OK, Sarah?”

I realised my mouth was hanging open, which is never a good look. I tried to smile at him, but none of my muscles wanted to respond. Or maybe it was my brain that was shutting down. Dirk pointed to my phone.

“Bad news?”

“Sorry? Oh, er…no. Quite the reverse, actually.” Somehow, the idea formed in my head that I had better reply to the most beautiful man I had even seen IN MY LIFE.

**_< I would like that too. Sarah x>_ **

Sending the text seemed to help my central nervous system to get working again and I started to walk, Dirk chatting in his high-pitched voice about his day at the gallery beside me. Once indoors, I saved Tom’s number as SMA (sexiest man alive) and opened THAT picture again. There it was, THE LOOK. And it seemed it was real, he _was_ looking at me like that, the camera wasn’t lying, and _OMFG_.

_Not-fangirl down_

The phone vibrated in my hand and I nearly dropped it, my nerves were so on edge.

**_< Are you free tonight? How abt dinner @ mine? Tx>_ **

I think my legs went. I know I was sitting on the damp and very scratchy doormat when my senses returned.

_Dinner. At HIS house. TONIGHT_

I looked at the grandfather clock above me. It was one of the things of Gran’s I really liked, and it’s not worth much so I kept it. It was 6.30 already.

_Get a grip, Sarah. Reply, woman!_

There was another text. It was from Raj. I decided to reply to SMA first.

**_< That would be great. Time? Address? S x>_ **

**_< I’ll pick you up in an hour? Is that OK? T xx>_ **

**_< I can get a cab. S xx>_ **

**_< I’d like to drive you. See u @ 7.30 T xxx>_ **

I opened Raj’s message which was him checking if Tom had texted me. And if he needed to call me an ambulance. I sent him a quick reply: every heart and loved-up emoticon that those fine people at Apple had to offer. Then I ran up stairs to get ready.

*****

**_7:25_ ** _Right. Bag; keys. Ready?_

I was in the hall, by the front door. I looked at myself in the mirror. I had washed my dark blonde hair and blow-dried it, after a fashion. It’s not my forte, that sort of thing. Neither is make-up. I like it, but my hand is not steady enough for sexy eyeliner flicks or anything like that. So I had kept it as minimal as I dared. I looked a bit better than I had on Friday, I thought, and definitely better than I had an hour ago, anyway. I had decided that a Monday night date ( _OMFG, a mf DATE???!!!)_ with dinner at home…

Oh sorry! Drifted off there again…

that those things meant fairly casual attire, so I had chosen jeans and a nice plain red silk shirt. It showed off my boobs nicely, and since I feel those are my best assets, it seemed the obvious choice.  My nice black linen jacket over that, and I finished the look with ankle boots, small gold hoop earrings and my Gran’s gold chain. Oh, and my fave _Jo Malone_ fragrance: _Tuberose Angelica._

_All over_

_Just in case_

So, there I was, all ready, waiting for the most gorgeous man in the world to arrive. The woman in the mirror was as white as a sheet and grinning like a loon. I clutched at the hall table in front of me. This was INSANE!

I heard steps on the path and there he was. I opened the door just as his finger pressed the bell, startling him a little. He was wearing _the white shirt of sex_ , jeans and a nice dark blue jacket (I am not a _fangirl_ , I told you, I just notice what he wears). I tried not to stare. Unsuccessfully.

“Oh, er, hi! Are you ready?”

_It’s really him. Actual real Tom Hiddleston. Shit_

I swallowed, my throat clicking. I was thirty-two, and I felt like a thirteen-year-old on her first date. I was shaking like the proverbial foliage.

“Yes, all set.”

“Then shall we?”

The eyebrows went up, and there was that half-smile which makes my heart squeeze in photographs. In real life

_is this the real life, is this just fantasy?_

it is DEADLY. I managed to get my facial muscles to form a rictus grin and picking up my bag and the bottle of wine I had chosen to take, I headed for the step. He stayed where he was, not letting me pass. Confused, I looked up into his face and he smiled again.

“May I?”

I couldn’t think what he meant, but then he stooped down, his hands on my upper arms and kissed me on the lips. Very softly, very briefly. It was the sexiest kiss I had ever experienced. I felt the blush rushing up my neck as he pulled back, looking very pleased with himself as he reached for my free hand and led me down the path to where his car was parked.

“I could have caught the tube or a cab, you know, Tom.” I was sinking into the soft leather of his Jag as we drove off. It was the fanciest car I’d ever been in. He laughed lightly. “ _And_ I could have cooked for you. I mean, it’s _really nice_ of you and everything, but-“

“Nonsense. I wanted to drive you. And I thought you might like me to show you _my_ books.”

I looked at him. He was watching the road, driving smoothly through the moderately busy traffic. He had a slight smile. If we had been at the lights then I think I might have jumped him; he certainly knew what turned me on.

_Oh, Thomas. Your books… UNF…_

It’s not a long way from my house to his; in fact, it’s walkable, just across Hampstead Heath really. We were there in less than twenty minutes. I knew roughly where he lived already; Raj had been there and told me. I know the area, I’ve eaten there a few times with friends and it’s really nice: pleasant and relaxed. But driving through the electric gates to his house - _in HIS car, with HIM_ \- was rather different to having a nice meal in the bistro down the road or whatever…

‘What can I get you to drink, darling?”

I was standing in front of his bookshelves, my eyes sweeping the titles, trying to get a feel for the overall thing.

“Oh wine is fine, whatever…”

Plays: loads. Shakespeare, natch, but plenty of other stuff. The odd thing leapt out at me. _The Deep Blue Sea, Much Ado about Nothing, Man and Superman, Under Milk Wood, Taming…_ lots of my faves. And poetry, of course. And novels by the yard. Many I had myself, some I didn’t know at all. I took a deep breath in through my nose.

_Ah, there it is: The particular fragrance of Tom’s library._

I committed it to memory.

“See anything you like?” His mouth was very near my right ear as his left hand snaked around me with a glass of chilled white wine. I nodded and turned towards him as I took the glass. He didn’t move his head at first, just smiled and brushed my lips with his. I tried to play it cool. Not easy with knocking knees, let me tell you.

“Everything, basically.”

“Like me at your house, then. I wanted to stay in that room, actually.” He sighed. “But then I smelled your cooking.”

I admit I did feel a small surge of pride at that.

“So, whatcha got cookin’, good lookin’?”

He laughed. Really laughed, as only he can, throwing his entire body into a backwards bend and roaring, slapping his thigh. Once he had recovered he told me: he looked a teeny bit shame-faced. “It’s a take-away from the Persian restaurant down the road.” He shrugged his shoulders. “You are such a great cook, I didn’t think I could compete. I’d have liked to take you out somewhere, Sarah, but, you know…” I saw his jaw tighten. I have heard some fangirls call that _the jaw-clench of sex_ , but I made an effort not to swoon at something that clearly indicated he was unhappy – in this case at least. “Anyway, I thought you’d like to see these,” he waved a hand at the books, “and I wanted a chance to get to know you better.” He paused. “Without interruptions.”

His left arm had come to rest on my shoulder as we stood there looking at his impressive collection, and as he finished speaking he squeezed me a little. I looked up into his utterly perfect face. He was looking back at me in the way he had in THAT picture; I think my heart stopped or something. I could feel the bulge of muscles in his arm and chest, hard against me. His blue eyes were heavily lidded and his pupils were dilated.

_Fuck…_

He took the glass of Chablis from my hand and put it down on the coffee table next to his. His movements were unhurried and seemed to me to be in slow motion. When he straightened up again he reached for me and I felt myself melt into his arms. He took the back of my head in his large hand and then we were kissing.

This time it was neither soft nor brief. In fact, I thought I was going to pass out. I was aware of an arm wrapping around my back and pulling me against him and I pressed into the firmness of his body. Our lips danced, our tongues wrestled and I felt myself getting very aroused. Him too… Then he stopped and rested his forehead on mine. We were both panting.

“I’m sorry, Sarah. I’m rushing this. It’s just that I spent all Friday evening wanting to do that so much I’m amazed the table didn’t tilt.”

I blushed again at the thought of that. No words from me: at that precise moment I thought I had lost the ability to speak, permanently.

“Let’s eat, shall we?” He grabbed my hand and walked me to the kitchen. I think.

He had laid the starters out on a big platter on the table: hummus, a yoghurt and cucumber thing and a salad of chicken, potatoes and egg, which was mouth-wateringly fabulous. There was a warm dish of aubergine, onion and walnuts that was like nothing I had ever eaten before.

“Do they deliver?” I asked, planning my next lazy evening.

He coughed and reddened a bit. “Er, actually no. They don’t normally do take away in fact, but I am a regular and I sort of begged them… and they were kind enough to indulge me.”

I smiled at him as he shifted a bit in his chair, embarrassed at his success. I swear, he could charm the birds out of the trees and melt the hardest heart. “Well, I might have to become a regular too – this food is incredible!”

As I wiped my plate clean of every delicious morsel with flatbread, we talked as we had on Friday. It was surprisingly easy to relax again, considering what had happened in the other room. But then, every so often I would look up to see him directing that same eyefuck at me. It tended to make me freeze (not least because, as with his text, it made my CNS shift into _loading mode_ ), and when I froze, he would smile in a particularly sexy way. He knew damn well what he was doing to me: I was being subjected to foreplay, Hiddleston-style.

The main course was a kebab of poussin and lamb with rice and salad, but I had pigged out on the starters so I could only manage a small amount. I declined his offer of ice cream too… I was afraid I’d be burping all night as it was. I watched him demolish a bowl of chocolate and pistachio gelato – more foreplay. Let me tell you, those lips closing around a spoonful of ice cream, while those eyes burn into your soul… _OOOFFFTTT_

Eventually the meal was over and he refused to allow me to move so much as a plate from the table. He made coffee while I returned to the sitting room and once again, admired the size of his library. I perched on the arm of the sofa and looked at his Latin and Greek tomes. Not my area, really, although I was familiar with Classical myth, and I had a boyfriend years ago who was nuts about Catullus so I had read some of his poetry. I slid a volume off the shelf and opened it:

**_Sad Catullus, stop playing the fool,_ **

**_and let what you know leads you to ruin, end._ **

**_Once, bright days shone for you,_ **

**_when you came often drawn to the girl_ **

**_loved as no other will be loved by you._ **

**_Then there were many pleasures with her,_ **

**_that you wished, and the girl not unwilling,_ **

**_truly the bright days shone for you._ **

****

I became aware of a presence behind me. “Ah, poor old Catullus. Always so unlucky in love…” He put the coffees down and gently turned me towards him, taking the book from me and dropping it on the sofa. “Now, where were we…?”

I never had any of that coffee; as soon as his lips met mine I was lost. My hands slid up his chest and around his neck. I don’t remember every detail of what happened but I know that Catullus ended up on the floor, underneath my shirt, and Tom’s too. I don’t normally do that sort of thing. I hardly knew him, after all, really. He was a friend of a friend, I suppose you could say, but most of what I had known about him until a few days earlier was in the public domain. But I pride myself on being a good judge of character, and nothing about him made any alarm bells ring.

He was being exactly what I would have expected: charming, kind, gentlemanly and sexy as hell. And his bod… Oh dear god. I had fantasised… we all do, right? But this was better. So much better… There I was, on the soft suede sofa with SMA hovering over me, in just his jeans with the belt undone and his face rubbing against my boobs. I closed my eyes and just felt. The sandpaper-roughness of his stubble on my skin, so arousing; the scent of him, expensive spicy cologne, shampoo and fresh soap; the sounds he was making: deep, intense, very, very male. And my hands on his biceps: soft skin over hard muscle.

He knelt on the floor beside the sofa and tugged gently at my jeans. I lifted up to help and they were down, knickers too, in seconds. I could see his chest rising and falling rapidly, and the bulge in his own denim was a sight to behold. A hot, wet tongue slid over my belly and around my navel. I shuddered with the thrill of it. He undid my bra and sucked a nipple deep into his mouth. I moaned loudly as he worked it, making sensations surge in all sorts of places.

I am not patient by nature, more of a ‘cut to the chase’ kinda gal, but Tom was making every stop along the way as delicious and tender as possible. I could see how hard he was getting, so I marvelled at his self-control. I wanted a better look, so I gave in to that impulse and pushed his jeans down over those ridiculously slim hips.

_Yeah._

_I assume that brochure in H-R is large-format_

_Because an A5 pamphlet just ain’t cutting it_

He was still kneeling on the carpet but I was becoming desperate. I began to hitch myself up onto the sofa to make room and, thank god, he followed. Our mouths met again and between us we arranged our bodies so that he was between my legs.

“I’m afraid we might leave a stain, darling.”

He shrugged. “I really don’t care,” he said and produced a condom from his hand like a coin in a conjuror’s trick. “But I think I should…”

“Allow me,” I said and did the honours. His face when I rolled that thing down him… well, he was hanging on by a thread by then. He really is a gentleman, in every sense. So without further ado, I invited him in for a visit.

_Oh my_

_I mean, OH MY_

I don’t know what time it was, but later, when my legs no longer worked, we sat and drank fresh coffee he had made. He was naked – I am very happy to say because he is so lovely to look at – but he had loaned me a robe as I was feeling a tad chilly.

“Will you stay?”

“You want me to?” I was slightly taken aback. As I said, we hardly knew each other, and well, he’s… _HIM_.

“I’d love it. Do you have to be somewhere in the morning, because if-“

“No. I am working from home the rest of the week, actually.” And there it was, again. That smile. The one that makes the sun want to go hang up her boots and retire.

I looked up at his bookshelves again. I wondered idly if he would let me borrow anything (I am very touchy about that – I have to have a contract involving blood and first-born children). I stood up and walked over to take a closer look. Again, I know.  A second later, I had his face buried in my neck, his arms around my waist, traveling north, and as I began to drift further into the alternative universe where all of this was happening, I heard a chuckle.

“What?”

“I don’t know what you’re thinking, darling Sarah, but those are built-in, so if you fancy a bit of  _l’amour à la bibliotèque,_ let’s give it a go.”

Which is how I came to be gripping the shelf and looking right at _The Iliad and The Odyssey_ while Mr _Double-First in Classics_ taught me a thing or two about how the gods make mortals mad…

******

The next morning I woke up in a sunlit bedroom. There was a light breeze making the tall trees round about cast dancing shadows on the bedclothes. I was enveloped in him. His nose was in my hair, and both arms were around me, one under my neck with the hand lightly touching my shoulder, the other draped over my hip.

“Tom?”

“Mmmm?”

“Why me?”

“Eheheheh. I was just going to ask you that.” He snuggled up, close behind me. “On Friday, when I was looking at your books, I thought: this woman is right up my alley. I thought you were gorgeous, and the library, well! Then I turned my head and saw you were looking right at me from the other room. And believe me, I get a few eyefucks these days, but yours…” I felt him shaking his head. “I’m surprised you didn’t see me get hard immediately. I knew then.”

I stared at the curtains, which were moving slightly in the breeze. My head was whirring madly.

_He saw me looking; I had eyefucked HIM?_

I started to giggle then. It was the picture Raj took of HIS eyefuck that had steered me to that bed. I stopped giggling, somehow.

 “Knew _what_ then, Tom?

“That I had to have you, Sarah.” He kissed my hair and squeezed one boob with those long fingers. “And now I’ve got you, I’m hoping you will hang around and keep looking at me like that.”

“I don’t think that will be a problem.”

I felt him growing hard then, and pressed back against him, but not before I thanked Raj silently one more time. To think I always used to moan about him bringing random people to my FNDs, and taking all his silly pictures, and sending them to everyone…


End file.
